Friend in Need
by goldfish7
Summary: A moment of carelessness leads to the exposure of a long guarded secret. Trigger warning for self-harm (nothing graphic).


Even though the words were nothing but blurs in the book before me, I turned another page as soft notes from the violin filled the flat. The usually comfy couch felt more like a torture device. Unresolved tension filled the air. I risked a glace in Sherlock's direction only to find his eyes locked on me. I shifted my glance back to the story before me, but the events of the day continued to replay in my mind.

 _John and Sherlock rounded the corner, both out of breath and glowing with triumph. John smiled as he saw me. "Lestrade has him. Good work flushing him out the back." I nodded and leaned against the wall, basking the rare warm, sunny day. Sherlock was right, this was a fine alternative to almost any drug. As we regrouped, the tall detective started to expound on the reasoning that had brought us all here and exposed the criminal. John cut him off, switching to doctor mode as concern filled his face. "You're bleeding. Let me take a look."_

 _I was still riding the high of the chase and was above such minor things as pain at the moment. Until I heard a sharp intake of breath and looked down to assess the damage. The building our quarry had taken up in was abandoned and full of hazards. Something sharp had caught my pants and torn a patch open. The cut itself wasn't bad, but the pants were beyond repair. My focus was on the large swath of exposed skin from high on the front of my thigh almost down to the knee._

 _For anyone else it would have been harmless enough, but my legs bore the scars of many years of self-abuse. I almost never self-injured on my arms and always stayed above the knee. In doing so, I was able to avoid drawing attention to myself by needing to hide behind clothing. As long as I was careful I ran little risk of being exposed. Today, I had not been careful enough._

 _I was all too familiar with what they were seeing. A dense patchwork of scars covered my leg, evidence left by years of cuts and burns. It was the visual proof of all the pain and chaos of my mind, and it was on display for the world. There were even a few cuts that were still healing, not recent, but not exactly old either. I couldn't have felt more exposed if I was standing on the street naked. Panic took hold long before logic had time to step in. "Oh this, it's nothing. I'm sure it looks much worse than it is. I'll need to go home and change anyway, I'll clean it up then. Stay here and finish up with Lestrade, I'll catch a cab and meet you there." I walked backward as I talked, hoping that if no one could get a word in, I could escape._

 _"Wait!" John called after me, but I was far enough away to round a corner and pretend I hadn't heard him._

 _I was still scanning for a cab as I walked when Sherlock caught up to me on the main street. He shortened his stride and fell into step with me. He didn't say a word, and John wasn't with him. I did my best to stifle my panic. If only we could all pretend this hadn't happened. I shot a sidelong glance at him. "John's not coming back to the flat then?"_

 _"No, he's gone home to Mary. He wanted to treat your injury of course, but I assured him that I would keep an eye on you and update him."_

 _I nodded and ignored what he was actually saying and his intense focus._

"You've been starting at the same page for the last five minutes. Your reading rate has fluctuated for the entire evening, and is far below your usual. Would you like to talk now, or should we continue to pretend that there is nothing wrong?"

Sherlock's voice jarred me from my reverie. "Nothing _is_ wrong." I insisted out of reflex and without any conviction.

He sighed and returned to his music. The piece he was playing changed from soothing and calm to aggressive and discordant. I closed my book and drifted to the kitchen to make tea. Even across the room, I feel his burning gaze on my back. His playing continued as I busied myself gathering the cups and milk. As always, I did my best to ignore the discomfort I felt whenever I was under his scrutiny.

My gift was invisibility. I had always excelled at fading to the background, and it was where I was comfortable. His ability to look at me and tear through my camouflage both terrified and fascinated me.

He lovingly placed the instrument down and sat in his chair with the fluid grace that I always envied. I placed his tea on the table with the intent to make my excuses then retreat to my room when he finally spoke.

"I lack exhaustive understanding of few subjects," he said as he picked up the hot tea and sipped it. "Even emotion is not a mystery to me, contrary to the belief of some. I understand that people feel the need for connection, friendship, love. Even if I don't partake in such…" he paused for a moment and I was impressed that he seemed to be censoring himself so as not to offend me.

"Common base desires?" I suggested with a wry smile.

"That works. What I don't understand is why people insist on ignoring simple facts of their situation or pretend that they don't exist. Why do they put so much energy into subterfuge when it is both unnecessary and ineffectual?"

"I don't understand."

"You should borrow John's t-shirt," he said with a smirk. "Do you believe that today is when I first learned about your scars?"

I felt the blood drain from my face as he dropped that bomb. I let myself fall into John's old chair across from Sherlock. There was such a large part of my life that I tried to keep secret. It was a consideration in almost everything I did. Apparently my success was a delusion. "I wanted to believe that you didn't know."

"Don't misunderstand. You did respectable job considering your limitations, but did you think _I_ would fail to notice the signs?"

Comments like that were par for the course with someone like Sherlock. They weren't insults, just factual observations, you had to understand and accept that if you wanted to be around him—and remain sane anyway.

"You never said anything."

"Why would I? It's not the best method of dealing with unpleasant issues, but who am I to judge you for it? When I was looking for external methods for coping, I went with cocaine. It worked splendidly in the short term, but the long term effects were rather tiresome. I wouldn't recommend it either."

"It's hardly the same thing."

"Isn't it? If I were to tell you that I was going to find and remove every blade and tool from the flat so that you could never again self-harm how would you feel?"

There was no need to answer, he could see my discomfort in the way I averted my eyes and shifted anxiously. My hand fell to my thigh seeking familiarity of the raised scars there before I had a chance to stop the unconscious action.

"Do you not gain comfort and clarity from your chosen drug? Do you not crave it until it makes your skin itch and your mind restless? You're as much of an addict as I am, even if your drug of choice isn't as expensive or immediately destructive."

I wasn't ready to accept the comparison just yet. I didn't feel superior for my choice, if anything I felt he was doing himself a disservice. Kicking a drug habit had to be much harder than just being normal enough to not want to hurt yourself.

He frowned and launched from his chair, moved into motion by frustration at my lack of immediate agreement. Once again he'd gleaned my argument long before I'd articulated it.

"You're framing the problem incorrectly. This is chemistry, not character. You've become addicted to the endorphins, the high you get from self-harm. This addiction has been reinforced with every injury."

It was true, recently I'd felt the urge not just when I was down but just when it had 'been too long'. In fact since I took up with up with John and Sherlock, my depression had improved dramatically. Keeping up with them filled my days with excitement. Every case made me feel like I was doing something worthwhile, that I was actually helping people. It was also true that I was trying to stop. It had been weeks since I sat down with my blade, but I'd be lying to myself if I said the urge had vanished.

"Do you know why I took you on as an assistant?"

The sarcasm was closest to the surface as always. "John was moving out and you needed another housekeeper."

He didn't take the bait. "You read people, and you're good at it. Not as good as me of course, few are, but you're more aware than most. In your needless desire to hide from the world, you have taught yourself to assess people and know how best to remain unseen. I can make far better use of your gifts than you have been. You also seem to share a liking of danger and adrenalin, both of which are necessities in this household. The housekeeping was a bonus." The corner of his mouth raised in the smart ass self-assured smile he loved so much.

I was still assessing his backhanded compliment as when he fell back into the seriousness of the topic. "We both know that there is nothing I can say to magically cure you of this. It doesn't matter if what I think what you're doing is self-destructive, dangerous and unnecessary, _you_ have to believe it if you have any chance at recovery. I won't make you utter empty promises about never doing it again. I don't like that you feel the need to injure yourself any more than you would want to be in the next room knowing that I'm sticking a needle in my arm. I know that you're already trying to stop, even if you're not having a lot of success yet. As long as you're careful about this, I trust you to come to me if things escalate. If I feel you're no longer capable of that, John and I will take steps to ensure your safety."

Maybe it should have sounded like a threat, but from Sherlock it felt like more of a promise that he would be watching over me. "John knows too then?"

"Well he isn't that dull. Though he only figured it out today when he saw your leg. He wanted to be here, but I thought you might not want to deal with both of us at once."

This from the man who was above such things as compassion, caring, and the tiresome nuances of emotion.

"John handles these kinds of things with more tact than I, so you may prefer to talk to him, but if you ever need someone and you can't find a better option I will always try to be here for you. You've become important to my methods. You may not be quite as handy as John with all his medical knowledge but you're still much easier to cart around than Billy. People have such a negative reaction when I converse with him in public." He gestured vaguely at the skull sitting on the mantle.

I'd known him long enough to translate his meaning. This was about as close as Sherlock got to saying that you were important to him, you were a friend, even if he was still adamant about being above that sort of thing.

"Thank you, Sherlock. That means a lot to me."

He nodded and picked his violin. "If you're tired, you should sleep, it's been a long day. Of course you're welcome to stay here if you need the company."

I still felt off balance. The whole conversation was less confrontational and more understanding and calm than I expected it to be. There was no anger and no tears, but somehow I felt lighter than I had in years. The knowledge that I was no longer alone, that someone knew my secret and was still there for me was uplifting beyond words. For the first time, I started to believe that with some help, I might kick this thing. More than that I was beginning to understand that I really wanted to.


End file.
